Read Online Lightning Encounter by Anne Saunders - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne Saunders
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frown.
âYou were.â She eyed him suspiciously, but he was on guard now and showed her his saturnine countenance. She willingly abandoned the probe to ask:
âDid your grandmother possess a sewing machine?â
âI wouldnât know. She may have. She thriftily made up her own curtains, so itâs more than a possibility. I disposed of some of her stuff, but not a sewing machine. If itâs anywhere, itâll be in the attic.â
âMind if I root? Iâm not professional enough to make a coat, but I could manage a couple of nighties, and some undies. Perhaps even a dress.â
âYou donât have to. I can let you have some more money if that isnât enough. Iâm not hard up.â
âNo, but I am. And I can only accept an amount I can pay back. It must be a loan. I promise to pay back every penny.â She was immutable, mindless in her determination to pay back the loan.
âAll right. All right.â He hadnât time to argue. âI must go in to work today. Iâll see you this evening. Andâgood rooting.â
When he had gone she looked at the money as if it was something that might bite. She had to take it, she couldnât go about looking like Eve; but it was abhorrent to her to borrow. Although it was disloyal of her to think it, her adored father was a man of flexible principles, and even he wouldnât borrow. He was quite illogical on the subject. He would steal, accept a gift, or do without, but he wouldnât borrow. To do something he wouldnât stoop to, made her seem less of a person. She hadnât minded accepting the gift of clothes from Ian, she didnât mind eating his food. But she did mind picking up that money.
She thought it might be dusty grubbing about in the attic, and shrank from going up there in her one and only dress. She wondered if she could fix it with her conscience to âstealâ one of Ianâs old shirts.
The master bedroom was about four times the size of hers. Three windows paced one wall, giving it an unsurpassed vista of trees in soldierly ranks, marching in dark, menacing majesty towards a rough heather clad fell that rose out of the blackness and the gloom in a series of humps to a skyline softened with cloud.
The view was such that it dominated all conscious thought, and she felt her breath catch imperceptibly in her throat and wished she had her fatherâs skill with a brush and pallette. She had his eye and his off-beat appreciation of beauty, but not his clever fingers. The sharply contrasting contours, too vivid for some tastes, stirred her senses and for a moment she was haunted by the strange loveliness, possessed almost by other spirits who in earthly form had clung to this window and enjoyed the merging of the obvious prettiness of pinky mauves, violets and greens, and thrilled at, and perhaps experienced a chilling feeling of disquiet by, the enveloping darkness and pagan density of the woodland.
It was almost an anti-climax to turn away and examine the room. It was so normal and ordinary; huge wardrobe units filled the deep chimney alcoves and a pastoral scene, idyllic and timeless and pleasing to the eye, adorned the white wall. It was a simple watercolour. Karen liked it. It did not inspire her to depths of feeling, and she did not know if she liked it because of, or in spite of this. She was still searching, finding out about herself through the medium of art appreciation.
The candlewick bedspread was cornflower blue, several old-fashioned hooky rugs in variegated shades of blue, from cornflower to deep wedgewood, set off the mellow beauty of the waxed, elm floor.
Investigation showed that Ian had emptied one unit of furniture completely, obviously to make room for his guestâs clothes. Would Miss Stainburn like this room? As she rested her elbows on the sill would she be filled with reckless exhilaration? Or would she back away from the pressing nearness of the
âYou were.â She eyed him suspiciously, but he was on guard now and showed her his saturnine countenance. She willingly abandoned the probe to ask:
âDid your grandmother possess a sewing machine?â
âI wouldnât know. She may have. She thriftily made up her own curtains, so itâs more than a possibility. I disposed of some of her stuff, but not a sewing machine. If itâs anywhere, itâll be in the attic.â
âMind if I root? Iâm not professional enough to make a coat, but I could manage a couple of nighties, and some undies. Perhaps even a dress.â
âYou donât have to. I can let you have some more money if that isnât enough. Iâm not hard up.â
âNo, but I am. And I can only accept an amount I can pay back. It must be a loan. I promise to pay back every penny.â She was immutable, mindless in her determination to pay back the loan.
âAll right. All right.â He hadnât time to argue. âI must go in to work today. Iâll see you this evening. Andâgood rooting.â
When he had gone she looked at the money as if it was something that might bite. She had to take it, she couldnât go about looking like Eve; but it was abhorrent to her to borrow. Although it was disloyal of her to think it, her adored father was a man of flexible principles, and even he wouldnât borrow. He was quite illogical on the subject. He would steal, accept a gift, or do without, but he wouldnât borrow. To do something he wouldnât stoop to, made her seem less of a person. She hadnât minded accepting the gift of clothes from Ian, she didnât mind eating his food. But she did mind picking up that money.
She thought it might be dusty grubbing about in the attic, and shrank from going up there in her one and only dress. She wondered if she could fix it with her conscience to âstealâ one of Ianâs old shirts.
The master bedroom was about four times the size of hers. Three windows paced one wall, giving it an unsurpassed vista of trees in soldierly ranks, marching in dark, menacing majesty towards a rough heather clad fell that rose out of the blackness and the gloom in a series of humps to a skyline softened with cloud.
The view was such that it dominated all conscious thought, and she felt her breath catch imperceptibly in her throat and wished she had her fatherâs skill with a brush and pallette. She had his eye and his off-beat appreciation of beauty, but not his clever fingers. The sharply contrasting contours, too vivid for some tastes, stirred her senses and for a moment she was haunted by the strange loveliness, possessed almost by other spirits who in earthly form had clung to this window and enjoyed the merging of the obvious prettiness of pinky mauves, violets and greens, and thrilled at, and perhaps experienced a chilling feeling of disquiet by, the enveloping darkness and pagan density of the woodland.
It was almost an anti-climax to turn away and examine the room. It was so normal and ordinary; huge wardrobe units filled the deep chimney alcoves and a pastoral scene, idyllic and timeless and pleasing to the eye, adorned the white wall. It was a simple watercolour. Karen liked it. It did not inspire her to depths of feeling, and she did not know if she liked it because of, or in spite of this. She was still searching, finding out about herself through the medium of art appreciation.
The candlewick bedspread was cornflower blue, several old-fashioned hooky rugs in variegated shades of blue, from cornflower to deep wedgewood, set off the mellow beauty of the waxed, elm floor.
Investigation showed that Ian had emptied one unit of furniture completely, obviously to make room for his guestâs clothes. Would Miss Stainburn like this room? As she rested her elbows on the sill would she be filled with reckless exhilaration? Or would she back away from the pressing nearness of the
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